Bright Pink Toy

Cade

The front door of my real home swings open before I even reach the porch, and suddenly there's a blur of blonde curls and gap-toothed grin launching herself at my legs.

"Cade! Cade! You're here!" Gwen shrieks, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist

"Hey, monster," I laugh, scooping her up and spinning her around until she's dizzy with giggles. At six years old, she's the only person in the world who thinks I hung the moon, and I'd probably kill anyone who tried to change that.

"Careful, she's been bouncing off the walls since you called," Jill says from the doorway, her teacher voice warm with affection. "Come on, dinner's ready."

Alex appears behind her, and for a second I'm nine years old again, standing on their doorstep with everything I owned shoved into a garbage bag, waiting for them to decide I wasn't worth the trouble.

Thirteen years later, and I still can't quite believe they kept me.

"How's the house?" Jill asks as we settle around the familiar kitchen table that's seen more family dinners than I probably deserved. "Are you boys taking care of the place?"

"It's fine," I say, stabbing at my mashed potatoes. "Same as always."

"Any new developments?" Alex asks with that casual tone that means he's fishing for information about my life that I'm not volunteering.

I think about Quinn, about the way she looked at me this morning with those judgmental eyes, about how I left her stranded like a complete asshole. "My friend’s sister moved in."

"Oh, that's nice!" Jill brightens. "Having a girl around might civilize you boys a little."

If only she knew.

Gwen chatters through most of dinner, telling me about her new teacher and the boy in her class who keeps pulling her hair because he "likes her" and how she told him that's stupid because "if her brother liked someone, he'd be nice to them, not mean."

The innocence of it hits me like a punch to the chest.

After Jill takes Gwen upstairs for her bath and bedtime story, Alex and I retreat to the living room with a beer can only for him and soda for me since I have to ride Roxie back.

"So," he says, settling down. "How's everything really going?"

I know what he's asking. He's been asking some version of this question for three years now, ever since that shit went down in high school. Ever since certain accusations were made by certain people with certain agendas.

"I'm clean, Alex," I say quietly. "You know that."

"I do know that." His voice is steady, sure. "But I also know that stress can make people make choices they wouldn't normally make. And senior year, scholarships, all that pressure..."

The thing is, Alex and Jill never doubted me. Not really. When the rumors started flying and everyone else was ready to crucify me without a trial, they just... believed me. Even when I couldn't give them the whole truth, even when staying quiet made me look guilty as hell.

They never asked me to prove my innocence. They just trusted it.

It's more than I deserved then, and probably more than I deserve now.

"Hockey's good," I tell him instead. "Coach thinks we have a real shot at nationals this year."

We talk stats and training schedules until my soda is empty and Alex is yawning. By the time I hug them goodbye and promise to bring the guys around for dinner soon, it's past eleven.

The drive back to the hockey house takes twenty minutes on Roxie, and I spend most of it trying not to think about how different I feel in that house versus this one. Here, I'm the son Alex and Jill chose. The big brother Gwen adores. The guy who belongs.

There, I'm just another player trying to keep his head above water.

The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, which means the guys are probably still at the freshman party. Those things never end before midnight—it's tradition for the sophomores to keep the newbies out as late as possible before orientation, some twisted form of hazing that everyone pretends is just fun.

I should probably be there. Should be doing my part to traumatize the next generation of college students.

Instead, I'm too tired and looking forward to falling into my own bed for the first time in two days.

I let myself in through the front door, dropping my keys on the table and heading for the stairs. The house feels different with Quinn in it—heavier somehow, like there's electricity in the air waiting for someone to flip the wrong switch.

A sound causes me to pause. A soft, rhythmic sound coming from upstairs. Like a machine or something.

I freeze at the bottom of the stairs, my brain trying to process what I'm hearing. It's coming from the end of the hall. From Quinn's room.

Without thinking, I take the stairs two at a time, drawn by curiosity The sound gets clearer as I get closer, a quiet buzzing accompanied by what sounds like...

No.

No fucking way.

I should walk away. Should go to my own room and pretend I never heard anything. Should mind my own goddamn business like a decent human being.

Instead, I find myself standing outside her door, my hand on the knob, my brain completely offline.

I turn the handle.

The door opens.

My eyes fall on Quinn—uptight, judgmental, holier-than-thou Quinn Holloway—with her head thrown back in pleasure, a bright pink vibrator between her legs and her hand moving in practiced circles.

She gasps, her back arching off the bed, and the sound goes straight to my dick

For a second that feels like an eternity, I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think past the sight of her like this—vulnerable and desperate.

Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, and she's making these small, breathy sounds that are going to haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong on every possible level.

I should leave. Now. Before she opens her eyes and sees me standing here like some kind of perverted stalker.

But I can't move.

And just right in time her eyes snap open and locks directly with mine.